


Dawn

by MlleMusketeer



Category: Transformers (Bay Movies)
Genre: Abandonment, Character Death, Child Death, Dark, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Mentioned Discrimination, Implied/Referenced Torture, Sparklings, Starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 20:10:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1441273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MlleMusketeer/pseuds/MlleMusketeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Megatron had good reason for his actions in Dark of the Moon. Indeed, there was nothing else he could do.</p><p>Rating for grimness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dawn

My children cry.

I would strike Starscream for this but it is not his fault. Not this time. He is as distressed as I. They cry for the energon we cannot give them, for the ache of limbs that will never grow right, for tiny systems that whine on the brink of collapse. They have never known the comfort of an incubator, or of clean servos and lines and actuators, or of a full tank. I have given them the energon from my limbs, the metals of my frame, and it is not, cannot be enough.

My tank aches with emptiness. I have almost forgotten what it is to have a full one, what it is to refuel from a cube, a proper cube. I must be content to lie like a dead thing in the sun, glean what little energy I can from the radiation of that weak star, process it into fuel with my failing systems. This existence is not fit for a turbofox and yet here we exist. It is not living.

I wonder sometimes if our hope is not poison, if it is wrong to lengthen the deaths of our bitlets so. Primus—if indeed that wretched god still hears our pleas, still cares for His children—takes them with every dawn, little limp lolling bodies lying in among the living. I spoke the rites over the tiny things at first but I cannot do even that now. There are too many, and I have not the energy, not the grief. It makes me feel as sparkless as the monstrous things the humans made of us. But there are too many, and I cannot believe in Primus’s mercy. Not anymore.

_This is not for you_ , Sentinel told me, and Optimus made no objection. Not for me the sparklings, not for me the old languages, the proud history of our people, even the very rites I speak over that which was spark of my spark, frame of my frame. Not for me, the comfort of life, for they told me I was a thing of death only and how much easier that would be! War, protection, easy enough. Honorable enough for me, Sentinel said, and if he sneered he hid it too well to allow me to take offense.

Not for Optimus the battlefield, he told me. He was not to lift sword in his own defense. Not to face his foes—it was not his path. He was to be treated like a delicate thing and kept from the horrors necessary to protect him and his honored charge of civilization and history, and in turn the horrors must of necessity be kept from him.

But here we stand on an alien world, and Optimus takes his honor in murder, in enslaving himself and that civilization to aliens, in all the cruel art of war, and I stand with the future of my world’s life in my hands and mourn its hideous slow death. I will do anything for these, my children, my people, my civilization, for I carry the responsibility of Prime and none of the honor. I will make myself slave to Sentinel for them, and if the cost of that comes from those who so violated my processor and spark and frame, those who treat us as slaves (the human boy treats Bumblebee as a toy to be called and scolded and confined, and though I hate the scout, my spark hurts for him, that he should find such humiliations acceptable, that the one who bears the title of Prime condones his treatment) so much the better.

Optimus, I will not call on. He whom I called brother would snuff all of us, our weak desperate lives and our sparklings with us.

This too, hurts my spark. For he should be as Sire to them. They are our first generation in millions of years, and he would kill them. I will not allow that. 

My children cry, and I turn my face to the stars and wonder if it would be too cruel to allow hope to linger another day.

 


End file.
